The Next Move

Groggy Dundee grimaced as the drunken Doctor Merde hacked and sawed at his affected leg. He was destroying most of the flesh around the wound, and kept taking swigs of pure tequilla every minute or so. It hurt.

Dundee's entourage, Cullen and Jed, looked on.

"If you're thinking of cutting off that leg, Doctor - don't," said the Major holding a gun up to the Doctor's head.

"I am only concerned about the loss of blood," Doctor Merde replied. "Though much of it is Dr. Pepper. . ."

Cullen smiled at this, then looked at his commanding officer and stopped.

"I figure you'll walk in seven days and ride in twelve," the Doctor said.

"I'll walk in five minutes and ride right now," Groggy said defiantly.

"You'd better rest here, Groggy," Jed said. "Stay off the streets - you'd make an unlikely looking Mexican. Adios, amigo." And then, they exited.

Groggy watched as the inept Doctor sawed on his leg like a lumberjack and then took a swig of Cream Soda - NOT Dr. Pepper. He noticed the Doctor was starting to cut a little too high. He then looked at the gun in his hand, and then at the seemingly demented doctor. . .

* * *

Back at camp, Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brian called a meeting of the other non-commissioned officers. Sergeants Kimmel and Harriman, Lieutenant Joe Starbuck and his brother Alex, and Mr. Stubb, the hulking cook, all assembled to discuss the situation and what they should do next.

A role had been taken, and aside from the three in Durango, two of whom would be returning, the command was missing many members:

- Grenouille, plus Garfer and the Canadians, believed to be POWs to the French;
- Cavalry Guy, last seen dying by charging a French column;
- Keith Richards, who had flown to Hollywood to film his cameo for "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End", snorted some coke, and never returned.
- Mr. Smit, who was dead.

"We face a grave situation, gentlemen," Captain Tyreen intoned. Even though Joe was the nominal commander, Tim's natural charisma and understanding of the situation made him the natural leader.

"We are too far from the border to just escape back to America. We are too few in number to continue fighting the Apache, we cannot stand up to the French, and we have no idea where the fuck we are. We are in a bit of a pickle."

"So, what do you suggest we do?" Joe asked.

"Well, there are many options. We could flee for the border, and probably die along the way; we could stay and fight, but we'd be annihilated, we could disperse but what good would that do us? Or we could surrender."

A long, solemn pause passed over the assembled officers.

"Let's KICK SOME ASS!" screamed Stubb.

"Let's get DRUNK!" shouted Harriman and Kimmel in unison.

"Let's. . ."

Suddenly, there was a sound of gunfire from the picket lines. The officers scattered, grabbing their weapons, and rushed out to see the pickets bringing in a strange-looking man, dressed in traditional Scottish regalia, riddled with bullets. Tyreen bent down to him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded.

The dying Scot took a blood-stained letter out of his kilt. "This. . . is. . . " He died without saying anything else.

Tyreen opened the letter and began reading it. The text read:

Major,

Seargent Kimmel and I are still alive. We're on our way back to camp. We found this random Scottish guy who says he hates the French, and hepromised to give this message to you. We need someone to find us, goddamnit!

WE'VE GOT NO BOOZE!

Seargent Harriman

Tyreen looked at Kimmel and Harriman, who waved nervously at him. He then crumpled the letter up and threw it on the ground.

"No, gentlemen, there is only one course of action we can take. We must recruit more bullet fodder so that none of us has to die. Who's with me?"

"AYE!" the cry went up at once.

"And I know just the place!" said Sergeant Harriman suddenly.

Everyone looked at her.

"Well. . . I. . . um. . ." She couldn't think of the words. "Let's get drunk!"

* * *

At the Rio Nazas, the bridge being constructed by Grenouille and the Canadians was almost complete. The stubbornness of Garfer and Grenouille's architectural know-how led to the bridge taking only sixteen months to construct.

* * *

Marie Wynter ran like she never had before. After two days of captivity with the Apaches, she was losing her mind. She couldn't live as an Indian, and she didn't want to be a hostage. She just wanted to be home, back in her college dorm, where no Indians (except her friends from Spanish class) would burst into her dorm and take her away.

The Apaches seemed curiously disinterested. Sierra Charriba debated what he should do with the hostages. The raid had been conducted by his subordinate Guerro, and was thus not officially sanctioned. He could kill them, but he'd be wasting ammunition. He could hold them for ransom, but from whom? He could let them become Indians, but they were too old. What then would become of them.

Finally, Sierra Charriba slapped Guerro across the face and told him to let the hostages go. The hostages were all sent on transit busses back to the hotel from which they were kidnapped. The whole daring raid had been nothing but a farce that detracted from Charriba's main mission - running away.